


Breaking Quarantine

by SomewhereApart



Series: Breaking In [7]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Outlaw Queen - Freeform, because what's a pandemic for if not fanfiction, breaking in - Freeform, quarantine fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomewhereApart/pseuds/SomewhereApart
Summary: We were all kicking around the idea of writing one-shots of how our various verses would be handling the current stay-at-home orders, so I went ahead and did it. BIn OQ, 5 years later, gettin' their quarantine on in 2020. I will do my best not to let this be TOO spoilery for Breaking In itself, and I am not answering any of your questions about the state of things. lmao
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Robin Hood
Series: Breaking In [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/920265
Comments: 27
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Breaking In is technically set in 2015, so this 2020 pandemic situation is 5 years later and written as such. I'm gonna do my darndest not to spoil the story itself for ya, but you may notice some differences. Henry is 15. Roland is 8. Etc. etc.

He can tell she’s irked with him the moment he walks into their bedroom. Five years with someone does a lot for being able to read their moods, and this one in particular, he knows well: _You’ve made a mistake._

She’d gone up to a bed a while ago, poking her head into the den to tell him and the boys goodnight. It doesn’t surprise him to find her still awake, book in lap, wearing that threadbare Boston College sweatshirt with her hair up in a messy bun. But as he takes in the straight set of Regina’s shoulders and lack of eye contact upon his entrance, Robin thinks maybe they should have paused their video game to offer her proper bedtime wishes rather than the distracted grunts she probably got.

He keeps an eye on her as he peels off his t-shirt and lobs it toward the hamper in the closet. It doesn’t quite make it; Regina exhales slowly—he might have missed it if the room hadn’t been dead silent. But it is, so he does not, and he’s loath to work her into even more of a snit so he pads properly across the room to toss the shirt where it belongs, shucking his sweatpants, too.

He walks to the bed in his nothing but his pants, and gives the dog a pat on her rump to urge her from her usual place—head plopped over Regina’s knees and the rest of her stocky body sprawled across his side of the bed. Pixie’s ears shift, and her head nearly turns, but she doesn’t move.

Great. He’s got both ladies of the house ignoring him, it seems. (No surprise, that. Where Regina goes, so goes the dog, and moods are no exception.)

“C’mon, girl,” he urges, giving her another pat. “Time to shove off to your own bed.”

“She’s fine,” Regina murmurs, turning the page in a way he can only describe as “pointed.” She still doesn’t look at him.

Robin sighs, and decides to sod it all. He sits on the mattress, settling on top of the quilt somewhere between the dog’s arse and his own pillows, leaning over to rest most of his weight on his hand as he asks, “So what’ve I done, then?”

She looks up, finally, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she’s trying to determine how much of an argument she’d like this to be.

Robin digs another scoop of dirt for his own grave by adding, “Y’know, since I’m apparently sleeping on the sofa.”

“Who said anything about the sofa?”

“Well, unless you’ve somehow found a way for the dog and I to occupy the same space…”

She sighs again and makes a soft sound, scratching behind Pixie’s ears, before coaxing, “Bedtime, Pixie.”

The dog lifts her head, gives Regina’s fingers a quick lick, then makes her way off the mattress and over to her corner, turning exactly four circles on her own bed before settling down there.

Regina watches the whole thing then turns her gaze back to Robin, her brows lifting as if to say, _Satisfied?_

“Thank you,” he mutters, but he doesn’t move. Instead he asks again, “What’s got you so narked?”

Regina’s lips purse, her book closes, and she exhales, tilting her head. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Ah, so there’s a list,” he says cheerfully, deciding to tuck in after all, slipping beneath the covers and stretching out just to give himself something to do that isn’t roll his eyes at her. It’s been a while since she’s treated him to this particular disdain and he finds he doesn’t like feeling like a disappointing child now any more than he ever has.

“We could start with the house,” she muses. “While you spent _four hours straight_ playing video games with our sons, I cleaned up the dinner I cooked for all of you, ran the dishwasher, did two loads of laundry, cleaned both bathrooms—”

Shit.

“You could’ve asked,” he points out. Because she doesn’t, when she’s in a mood. She just rage cleans and then blames him afterward.

Her scowl tightens; they’ve had this fight, and she always loses it. There’s no ground for her to stand on and she knows it—not once has she gotten a more resistant reply than “When we finish this level/die a few more times/complete this objective” from him when it comes to household chores vs. video games. Henry might moan about it, but Robin’s not a fifteen year old boy. Whatever she’s requested will get done if only she asks. It might take a bit longer than she’d like, but it _will_ get done, and she knows it—but why ask for help when she could just pick a fight over it later, right?

“I wouldn’t mind so much—not the cleaning nor the video games—if their homework was done,” she tells him, her voice low and irritated, “but after I finished the cleaning, and the laundry, and the dishes, I discovered that neither _one_ of them is finished with the work they were supposed to do today.”

Fuck. That one’s on him—he was supposed to cover the homeschooling today.

And he got them through most of it, he really did, but, “They’re stressed, Regina. Everyone’s stressed right now, even them. I thought we’d have a bit of fun first, then finish up the schoolwork.”

“Well, they’ll be even more stressed tomorrow when they have extra work to do, won’t they?”

He doesn’t mean to snap at her, really he doesn’t, but he wasn’t lying when he said that _everyone_ is stressed right now, and it’s possible that he is the most stressed of them all. So when she lobs that particular tone at him, he loses his already thin patience entirely.

“You know what, you’re right, they will,” he bites at her, “and if it’ll make you _feel better_ , you can make sure to tell them they’re stressed because I’m a shit parent, and their mum would have done a much better job of—”

“You _offered!_ ” she reminds him, heatedly. “You had the whole day off, you said ‘you work, I’ll take care of the boys, I’ll make sure everything gets done’—”

“And I failed,” he interrupts. “Got it. Message received.”

Her jaw clenches. “That’s not what I m—”

“Then what did you mean? Enlighten me.”

She breathes in, then out, and he’s not sure if she’s trying to rein in her temper or choose her words. “They’re not on break anymore; they’re tele-schooling. They have a schedule; they need to keep it, or this is going to be even harder on them. I know you had the day off, but—”

“Yeah, I did. First day off in two weeks,” he reminds her, needlessly. “So pardon me for wanting to spend it with my sons.”

She eases at that, but only ever so slightly. Her scowl goes less pinched, and the corners of her eyes soften, something sympathetic flickering beneath the irritation in her brown eyes. Her voice is less bitter when she tells him, “I know. I know how hard you’ve been working. But—”

He’s suddenly tired, really incredibly bone tired, and more than a little heartsick, and he’s certainly sick of arguing, so he cuts her off again, and says, “I’ll have them do it after breakfast. They’ll get caught up in the morning and you can keep them to their schedule in the afternoon, and I won't do it again.”

She looks at him for a second, and then nods, slipping her bookmark into place and settling the novel onto her nightstand before tugging that sweatshirt off to reveal a thin camisole beneath. And for a moment, while she folds the sweatshirt neatly and drops it to the floor on her side of the bed, Robin thinks that’s that and they’ll go to bed. Irritated, the both of them, with this gnawing ill will between them and the hope that it will all dissipate by morning.

He thinks that for a brief and lovely moment, and then she mentions almost absently, “I talked to my dad tonight.”

Robin pauses mid-reach for the lamp on his side of the bed—the freezing an obvious tell he should know better than. She’d sounded downright casual, but he knows she is anything but, and that pinching unease in his guts twists sharply.

Still, he matches her innocence for innocence and asks, “Oh? What about?”

She drops the act immediately, her words sharp and dark as she bites, “Don’t bullshit me.”

Robin gives up on turning the light out after all and drops back against the pillows with a sigh of, “Oh, why not?” If they’re going to keep arguing, he’d rather be able to look each other in the eye for it. “You just spent ten minutes bitching about chores and homework before telling me what you were really pissed about; why shouldn’t I get to have ten seconds of pretense?”

However irritated he thought she was before is nothing compared to the fury radiating off her as she sits up sharply and lights into him.

“I have been trying to get him to take this stay at home order seriously for _two weeks_ , and I call him tonight to catch up—”

“To check up on him—”

“Oh, shut it,” she hisses. “I call, and I find out he’s not at home where he ought to be, he’s _working._ For _you_.”

“He’s answering phones and taking down orders,” Robin dismisses.

“And taking payments and handing off takeout orders and, apparently, _doing deliveries_ —”

“Two! _Two_ of them, two stops _on his way home_ , that get dropped on doorsteps, and even for that he’s in a mask and gloves, he’s hardly—”

“Why is he working for you in the first place?” she doesn’t quite shout, but they’re loud enough now that he bets Henry can hear that they’re arguing, if not what they’re arguing _about_. And Robin should care, he should, but fuck it, they’ve had arguments before and they’ll have them again. The boy will live.

So he matches her, pitch for pitch, and lobs back, “Because he’s going barmy in that fucking flat all by himself! That’s why you keep calling him every night, innit? To make sure he’s not off at someone else’s place, playing dominos with his buddies or whatever?”

“So your solution was to have him work with the public? Robin, he’s not a young man; he has no business doing what you have him doing—”

“We don’t have to pay him,” Robin interrupts her. “He wants something to do, and we don’t have to pay him. He volunteered—he said to take the night off to be home with my family and he’d cover my work at the bar. For _one_ night, Regina. Not _even_ one night, just through the bloody dinner rush. He left at nine thirty and they’re running on a skeleton crew til close.”

All that aforementioned stress of his comes bubbling to the surface, and he leans forward, knees bending as he does until his elbows rest on them, his hands scrubbing over his face while he tells her what she already knows: “We are bleeding money. It’s been three weeks of take-out only, we’re not selling any liquor, and it’s day-to-day whether the food service is busy or dead as all hell. I’m not taking a salary during all this; if I take a night off, that’s someone we’ve got to pay to come in and work, and we just don’t have it right now. Your dad offered, so I could have a night or two off. So I could be with you and the boys.”

He doesn’t look at her, because quite frankly he wants her comfort, not her ire, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be getting it. Instead, he digs his thumbs into the ache brewing around his eyes and waits.

When she finally speaks, her voice is softer than he expected, and most of the fight’s gone out of it. “Why didn’t you tell me he’d offered to help out?”

“So we could have this argument a night sooner?” he questions, turning to look at her, finally.

Her lips curve sadly, one warm palm finding his spine, and he really hopes she doesn’t say so she could bail him out with more money because he might lose it entirely if she does.

Thankfully, she tells him simply, “So we could work something else out. Something that doesn't involve my dad putting himself at risk, even for one night.”

“Such as?”

Regina just shrugs. “I can answer phones; the boys can run orders out to people’s cars. You wouldn’t have to pay us, and hell, they’d probably think the masks were cool. It wouldn’t be a night off, but at least we’d have the night together.”

Robin’s shoulders loosen, ever so slightly. The thought had occurred to him, but she’s been so fussy about keeping everyone to their bloody _routines_ , he’d figured she’d never go for it. So he’d never bothered to ask. (There’s a lesson in all that, somewhere, if he had the courage to admit it).

Regina’s palm skates up, and then down, and she tells him, “I know how hard you’ve been working, I know the sacrifices you’ve been making and how worried you are about the bar—I am, too. But my dad isn’t the answer.”

Robin breathes in deeply, then out on a heavy sigh, and nods. “I’ve been texting every five minutes to make sure he’s washing his hands or not touching his face or doing anything else that might risk him getting sick and me murdered by his daughter.”

“You realize every time you text him, he’s going to touch his phone, right?” she deadpans and Robin just groans.

“Fuck this fucking virus,” he mutters, skinking back into the pillows in defeat. “We’ve worked so bloody hard to build this life—I’ve worked so bloody hard to get where I am—and if we lose it to this—”

“We won’t,” she assures him, that hand that had been at his back, finding his and weaving their fingers, squeezing hard. “We won’t.”

He’s not so sure.

There’s silence for a moment, and then she tells him, “I’m going to ask my dad to come stay here, with us. I was hesitant before, because you’re still working, there’s still risk, but he clearly doesn’t care, and at least here he won’t be bored or alone.”

“It’s certainly not dull here, I’ll give you that.”

“I figure he can help the boys with school—he’ll love it. He’ll get to be the doting grandpa, and I’ll get to work without having to stay on top of them. They need structure; you can’t assume they’re time managing well on their own, because they’re—”

“Squirrely little bastards?” he supplies, and just like that, the last of the bubble pops.

She laughs at him, smiling and shaking her head, and agreeing, “Yes. That.”

“I don’t know how you bloody do it every day,” he tells her, skull dropping back to the headboard with a thunk as he thinks back on the afternoon he’d spent trying to get the boys to do the bulk of their work. “I had to ask Roland to sit down _six_ times during one math lesson—and I’m still not sure _I_ understand the bloody thing, much less him.”

“Oh, I hate math. Hate it. I’ve already asked Lin if he’ll take over math instruction for an hour a day—he can Zoom in and they can go through all their work with him, and I can never have to deal with algebra again.”

Robin grunts and nods, and mutters, “Good. I can’t believe I was bested by third grade math; I run a bloody business!”

“It’s not your fault; they changed the way they teach everything,” she sighs, sinking down a little further until her head is on the pillows; Robin follows suit. “And I am not willing to _relearn_ math just so I can _teach_ math if I’m able to _offload_ math to somebody else.”

“Mm.” He reaches over, runs the tip of his finger down the length of one bare arm as he says, “Especially if that somebody else makes math sound like the sexy inner workings of the universe and is stupidly fit?”

Her lips curve for just a second before she drops them into a mocking pout and teases, “Jealous, are we?”

“As long as it’s the boys he’s calling to chat with and not you, then no.”

He likes Lin, he does, and ‘jealous’ isn’t the word he’d ever use to describe his feelings toward the man. They’re friends at this point, or at least, acquaintances via a mutual friend. The fact that they’ve both slept with said mutual friend—that Robin is still sleeping with and currently _married to_ said mutual friend—shouldn’t matter. It really should not.

But maths professors shouldn’t be that good-looking either, and he’s going to maintain _that_ opinion for as long as the man keeps wandering around looking like he’s just walked out of a Huckberry catalog.

“He’s married, too, you know,” she reminds him, and Robin hums an affirmative, because he _does_ know that, and he _isn’t_ jealous. Especially not when she’s leaning in and closing the gap between them, sliding one leg over his beneath the covers as her lips brush his and murmur, “And he’s not the only one who’s ‘stupidly fit.’”

The kiss that follows is easy as breathing and familiar as his own heartbeat. She still tastes vaguely minty from her toothpaste, and her tongue is warm and teasing against his. His fingers slide up to tug her hair loose from the tie that had been holding it back, dropping the elastic to be lost amongst the sheets as his fingers lose themselves in her soft locks. He drags blunt nails across her scalp as her palm runs up his chest, and they both shiver.

But as he opens his mouth further, intent on deepening the kiss and then some, she pulls back and smirks down at him. Her voice is velvety and low as she taunts him, “And besides, if my dad is handling the homeschooling, the only one at risk of seduction is him.”

Robin snorts, shaking his head and then surging forward until they’ve switched places. She lands on her back with a little yelp and a warm chuckle, winding her arms up around his neck as he bends down to lave kisses over hers.

She makes a sound he has yet to grow tired of and imagines he never will, goosebumps flaring as his beard tickles against sensitive skin. His lips barely leave her as he teases, “You’re going to want to stop talking about your father, babe.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” He nips the corner of her jaw, then reaches for the hem of her shorts and begins to shove them down. “I’m about to do things to his daughter he really wouldn’t approve of.”

She laughs again, her fingers raking through his hair this time, and then her shorts are gone, and his hands are busy, and their mouths are occupied with much better tasks than arguing about homework and stay-at-home orders.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since the first one-shot was a fade-to-black, I figured I owed y'all some sexy stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: mentions of past body image issues

There was a period of time when Regina was young where she didn’t like to shower. She’d liked being clean—she was, at times, obsessive about it—but the actual act of showering, she hadn’t found much enjoyment in. It was an opportunity for nitpicking. Self-examination. Self-criticism. 

There’d been a period of time she doesn’t much enjoy talking about when showers had been quick, and mostly conducted with her eyes closed.

But not these days.

She’s worked through a lot of her issues. Nowhere near all of them, and life has certainly not hesitated in heaping more of them on her as the years have gone by, but right now, at forty (God, _forty_ —that’s one thing she’s trying not to think about these days), her body image is one issue she’s mostly made peace with.

And showers, God, showers are heaven.

 _Especially_ now. 

Now, when there are five people living in her house—no, not living. _Quarantining_.

It’s not the technical term, she knows that. They’re being “safer at home” or whatever idiotic term the governor had used to tell them all to stay in their houses as much as humanly possible. 

It’s the right thing to do, the smart thing to do, and she _knows_ that, and she _accepts_ that, but it doesn’t do anything to change the fact that she feels like she’s been grounded. Sent to her room and told to stay there. With a bunch of _boys_.

She doesn’t know why it’s getting to her—it’s not as though they’ve never spent several days cooped up in the house together. And she loves them, every single one—Henry more than anything in the world, Robin with a ferocity she’d never imagined she could have. “Step-son” doesn't feel like it does Roland justice, not with how much time they’ve spent together. He’s her son just as much as Henry is Robin’s and she _adores_ him. And her father, well, he’s her _father_. Regina is nothing if not a Daddy’s girl.

She loves him, loves them all, loves spending time with all of them. They’ve taken week-long vacations together that are some of her most treasured memories. But _one_ week is one thing. _Several_ weeks is another thing entirely, and they’re starting to drive her crazy.

She loves them, yes, but dear God, they can be a lot of noise. And a lot of mess. And a lot of… well, just a lot.

So showers are no longer a quick affair. Quite the opposite. They are the pockets of solitude she carves out of every day. Hell, there have been days that she’s pounded out a workout on her treadmill for the sole reason of having an excuse to take another one. 

She’s been in this particular shower long enough to shampoo and condition her hair, shave her legs, her armpits, her… lady garden, use the exfoliating body scrub _and_ a foaming oxygen face mask. And rinse all of it away.

And right now, as she stands under the hot spray and lets the water run down over her skin, she has no intention of moving any time soon. 

Showers, she has learned, are a luxury.

She tips her face into the spray, lets the water sluice through her hair—and nearly inhales a lungful of it when her husband suddenly invades her fortress of solitude. He blows in like a hurricane, a gust of cold air in his wake and already talking; Regina whips around to gawk at him, her hair sticking wetly to her face. 

She shoves it out of her eyes and off her forehead as he tells her, “Getting a minute alone with you is bloody impossible these days,” already moving in close and grasping her hips.

Regina is still trying to get her heart rate under control after being barged in on while naked and vulnerable, so she brings a hand up to his chest to hold him off for a moment. 

“Robin!” she hisses. “I’m _in the shower_.”

“I know,” he replies, grinning until those dimples pop and making a point of looking her over as best he can from this close up. “Warm, and naked, and slippery. Just the way I like you.”

Regina rolls her eyes, but as one of his hands slides down to cup her rear end, one of hers makes its way around his waist and suddenly they’re torso-to-torso. His nearly-dry skin feels strange against hers, so she shifts to let him under the spray with her. After all, he’s not _wrong_ that it’s been hard to find time alone lately, and now that he’s in here, they might as well take advantage of it…

Still, on principle, she points out, “This is my alone time. My treasured, well-guarded alone time.”

“And because I love you dearly, I have figured that out,” he tells her, rocking her back and forth once, twice. “Which is why I gave you fifteen whole minutes before I barged in to seduce you.”

She snorts at that, one brow rising. “Seduce me, hmm?”

“Uh huh. But we have to be quick.” He leans in to steal a kiss, finally, one hand sneaking in between them and dipping down low. “Your dad and the boys are watchi—hello. What’s this?”

She’d been waiting for him to notice, had smirked at the moment his brows had lifted with delight. Still, his question just begs for a snarky answer: “A vagina?”

“Actually, I believe that’s—” he begins, reaching a bit _further_ between her legs to make his point. 

Regina wriggles, and laughs and whaps him square on the ribs. “Alright, alright.” She shrugs her shoulders, and tells him, “I was bored, and killing time in here. Away from all of you hooligans.”

Robin’s fingertips retreat once more to where they’d been, tracing lightly over the freshly shaved skin where she’d been neatly trimmed just that morning. “Mm.” His lips press to hers, once, briefly. “I don’t think you’ve been this bare since that first Labor Day we spent together.”

Just the memory of that weekend has her cheeks heating and her thighs clenching. They’d been insatiable, and everything had been so new. Secret, and thrilling, and, yes, okay, a bit fraught and full of Issues-with-a-capital-I. But, God, the sheer tonnage of pleasure over a 48 hour period had been… well, it’s a very, _very_ good memory, she’ll just leave it at that.

“That was a good weekend,” she murmurs against his lips, stealing another warm kiss.

“That was a _great_ weekend,” he amends, those sneaky fingers dipping low again, finding her clit and rubbing gently. It sends lazy tendrils of pleasure curling through her belly, and Regina relaxes into the sensation with a soft sigh. “Maybe I should go down on you, here, now, for nostalgic reasons.”

She chuckles again, the back half of it catching on a moan as he presses a little harder with his fingertips. “Not here. Oral in the shower always makes me think I’m about to slip and end up on my ass. Or that you’ll inhale a nose full of water and catch your death.”

“Happily,” he sighs, and she snorts, shaking her head. 

“But if you’re planning on some hanky panky, you’d better hurry up. The water’s getting cold.”

It’s not—it’s getting, at best, “warm” rather than “steaming.” But she's already been in here for twenty minutes, and he’d said they needed to be quick, so whatever the other denizens of the house are occupied with must not be terribly time consuming. It’s one thing to get off in their bed, at night, muffling gasps and moans into shoulders and sheets to keep the rest of the family from hearing. It’s another entirely to sneak a quickie in the shower while everyone is still up and about—she’d rather _not_ get caught by her father again if they can help it.

Robin must agree, humming his approval against her lips and turning her back toward the tile wall. It’s pleasantly cool-ish against her water-warmed skin, so she relaxes back against it as Robin’s fingers head determinedly back into vagina territory. Regina’s gasps softly as he sinks two inside her—she hasn’t had a _ton_ of foreplay and the shower is never the best location for staying wet in the ways that actually matter, so for a moment it’s just shy of comfortable. But then he curls his fingers just so, taking only one, two thrusts to find the spot that makes her gasp in all the _right_ ways, and Regina tips her head back and strangles the moan threatening to escape.

Sex the way they’d had it that Labor Day weekend—leisurely, with all the foreplay one could ever dream of, multiple rounds, and as much moaning and groaning as they could muster—is a luxury. One that they don’t get to indulge in often, and a quarantine quickie is no exception. So he’s gotten _good_ at this—at stirring her up quickly, getting her halfway there in no time and then getting the job done. His fingers thump and press just right over her G-spot, the pleasure blooming out in wave after wave that have her clinging to his ribs, her breath going shaky and deep as she swallows down another moan.

“God, that feels…”

“Good?” His mouth is behind her ear, his tongue teasing against her throat as she nods that oh, yes, it’s good. 

And then his thumb finds her clit and it gets even better.

It occurs to her that she’s not really pulling her weight, so she sends a hand out searching until it finds the thick length of him. Robin’s already hard for her, although he’s been halfway there since the moment he pulled her close. The way his breath huffs more heavily against her throat as she begins to stroke him sends a little thrill of satisfaction racing up her spine.

But then his fingers hit just right again and she doesn’t have the focus to waste on being smug. 

“Can’t wait to be inside you,” he murmurs to her after a few more toe-curling seconds of bliss, and Regina can’t think of a single reason he should have to.

She turns her chin enough to steal a kiss and breathes, “So don’t.”

And then they’re kissing. The promising, heady kisses they so often share when sex has gone from On the Table to Very Much Imminent. All tongues and heat and passion, and God, she hopes they never lose this. She doesn’t want to relearn what it’s like to not be kissed breathless by this man on a regular basis. 

It breaks when one of them finally needs to take a proper breath, although she can’t honestly say who. All she knows is that she takes the opportunity to turn in his arms and grind back against him, making her wishes perfectly clear without so much as a word.

He moans his approval, and then she feels the head of his cock drag down along the curve of her rear. He runs it through her folds once, a bit too far forward and then back before he lets out a small grunt of dissatisfaction. And then he’s gone from her, one hand giving her hip a squeeze as he urges, “Take a step back toward me, love.”

She does, the shift bending her just a little bit further forward. This time when Robin rubs the head of his cock against her sex, he must be satisfied that all is well, because he begins to push into her. For a moment, she regrets the lack of lube in the bathroom. She’s ready- _ish_ , and wet _enough_ , but this is definitely not the best sex of her life. It’s no Labor Day. 

She slips a hand back to grasp his hip when he’s only halfway in, and breathes, “It’s a bit, um…”

Robin mutters an apology and pulls out, and a moment later she hears the oh-so-sexy sound of him spitting. Regina fights the urge to wrinkle her nose—she’s never been a fan of spit as lube, something about it just seems crass (an opinion he’s deemed adorably prudish). But his cock slides more slickly when he presses back into her, so she can’t complain too much about it being a mood-killer. He goes slowly this time, eases in halfway, and then nearly back out, in a little further the next time, and back out an inch, over and over, opening her up, and Regina slips a hand between her own thighs to rub at her clit and help things along.

A half dozen or so thrusts and she’s taking all of him easily, his pace still measured and careful but picking up speed. Until she reaches back blindly and grabs his ass, tugging him into her with a good yank that makes them both grunt. 

She grins over her shoulder and Robin smiles back, muttering, “Yes, ma’am,” and grasping her hips firmly (something about the solid grip of his fingers holding tight as he fucks her always makes her knees weak and he damn well knows it). He doesn’t hold back anymore, fucking her quick and hard now that he knows she can take it. It makes goosebumps flare up her back and has her burying her mouth against her arm to muffle grunts of pleasure. 

Fuck, this is good.

He’s hitting just the right spot inside of her (okay, maybe not _just_ the right spot, but all it takes is a slight tilt of her hips and _oh, fuck, there_ it is), and his hands feel incredible, and her dad and the kids are right downstairs, making the whole thing illicit and hot and secretive. 

The water makes things louder in a way that makes her skin heat—not so great for the lube, but the slap of skin on skin is nothing compared to the slosh-slap of _wet_ skin against _wet_ skin, and the sound of them together _does things_ to her. Makes her wetter and hotter and _closer_ , and _fuck_.

One of those hands leaves her hip (she whimpers at the loss), but then finds its way into her hair, gripping loosely enough not to pull but firmly enough to tug her head back slightly as he tells her breathily how _fucking incredible_ she feels around him, how she’s _hot,_ and _so tight like this, fuck, love_ …

Regina’s knees start to feel a little wobbly. 

They may have gotten off to a dubious start, but from the way every thrust drives him right against that spot inside her, she thinks the impending orgasm is going to be _really, really_ good. 

And she knows he loves when she gets dirty right along with him, so she tells him so, gasps, “Your cock feels so—unh!”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm… thick and… hard and... _fuck_ , Robin… needed you… this... ”

She feels teeth at her shoulder, a gentle nip. “Me, too, fuck, babe, I don’t know how long I’m gonna last, let me rub your—”

She’s shaking her head before she even realizes it, but her belly has started to feel molten, pleasure churning liquid and hot, and if he changes a single thing right now she might lose the sensation. 

“Just like this,” she pleads, gasping it again, “Just like this…”

He curses under his breath, but she thinks it’s lust more than frustration—especially when he murmurs, “You wanna come on my cock, love?”

Heat ripples through her at the question, a shivery wave she knows well—it’s her body’s usual answer to that question, and she nods fervently because she thinks today, like this, she might actually be able to.

Usually she needs his fingers on her, or hers, or a well-placed vibrator, but apparently she’s a little hard up and he is _exactly_ where he needs to be, because her thighs are starting to quake. Every thrust is bringing her _that much_ closer, pumping heat and bliss into her veins, and then he’s talking again, fuck, God _bless_ him, urging her on, telling her to _go on then, come on my cock_ , and that he can feel how close she is, how bad she wants it, _needs_ it, and fuck him, it _works_ , all those words and the sound of his hips againts her ass again and again, and the deep, quick thrusts. 

The last thing she hears before she comes is him reminding her not to shout.

She doesn’t think she does, but she definitely _moans_ , and there’s a hand over her mouth a moment later, another between her thighs, pressing hard to her clit, _holding_ her to him with fingers pressed hard there as he fucks her through her orgasm and, God, it only makes her come _harder_. Her eyes roll back under closed lids, her palms pressing hard to the wall to keep her upright, fingers curling against the tile as ecstasy swamps her in another, sharper wave. 

And then he’s groaning into her ear, and they both collapse into the tile, his hand trapped between her and the wall, their hips grinding together obscenely as they wring out every last drop of pleasure from each other.

Her limbs feel like jello, and her belly feels hollowed out in the absolute best of ways despite the snug fullness of him still inside her. They’re both panting, but every deep breath of his crushes her harder against the wall and she realizes that dizzy giddiness she’s feeling is part post-orgasmic rush and part because she, “Can’t breathe… Need you to…”

“Right, sorry,” he pants, dropping a kiss to her shoulder and pulling out, stepping back as he does to give her some room to catch her breath. The water that hits her back is lukewarm at best, but it feels heavenly on her flushed skin. She stays just the way she is for a few more moments, letting the tile prop her up as her knees start to solidify.

The soft tickle of Robin’s fingertips down her spine makes her shiver, as does the satisfied and oh-so-loving way he murmurs, “It’s been a while since you came that way.”

“Mm,” she concurs. “It snuck up on me. But it was fantastic.” She turns then, finally, back to the wall as she winces and asks, “How loud was I?”

“Not very,” he assures. “Bit of moaning, but if we’re lucky they didn’t hear anything downstairs.”

One dark brow lifts, disbelieving. “They definitely know what’s going on up here, though. You’ve been in here way too long to be conserving water by soaping up together.”

Robin shrugs, hands finding her hips, thumbs stroking. “Roland’s still too young to put two and two together, and both Henry and your dad will be too traumatized at the realization to say anything.”

“Thank God,” she mutters, leaning in and pressing up against him. Her nipples are hard, the water cooling by the minute, and when she shifts, she can feel him leaking down her inner thighs, a slipperiness that the tepid water itself cannot account for.

The realization has her declaring, “I need another shower. You got me all sweaty… and messy.”

Robin smirks at that, smug as per usual, stealing a kiss before letting her go again. He reaches down to give his softening cock a rinse, steps further into the spray to de-sweat himself, and then tells her he’ll leave her to it. 

“Enjoy your solitude, love. Come out before you freeze to death.”

Regina hums in answer, already tipping her head back under the cool spray. 

She hears the door shut behind him as she’s rinsing away her own sweat, then runs her hand down her belly and a bit further, fingers dipping inside and drawing out what she can of the mess he’d left behind until they come away clean. 

There was a time, a long time ago, where showers made her feel less than luxurious, made her doubt herself, made her _hate_ herself and her body. But tonight, in this shower? She loves her body, every thrumming, post-orgasmic cell of it, and hot water be damned, she’s going to stay in this shower just a little while longer.


End file.
